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Tag: Stanley Plumly


Hard to tell

what looks like the stillness

of a bird from the outline of a leaf

among the scatter of what’s left

on the sycamore bearing down

on the window, here, on the page,

there, just outside, though I know

what I see as I know the air in the room

is a wall and beyond the wall

the far dark is an abstraction,

like a tree at night,

rain in a rill inside the branching,

the wind sometimes lost in the sorrow spaces—

and right now it could be dawn, cold dawn,

or the end of the day,

first light or last light holding on,

shining in a something-year-old tree,

where a bird, at the bird-height of trees,

could be a dry leaf curled,

the sun having started

or run through its spectrum,

depending on the colors, added or subtracted,

a healing, a wounding, morning or evening,

though you know, without saying, which one.

from Poetry Northwest 07.2 Fall & Winter 2012-2013More by Stanley Plumly from the library

Copyright © Stanley Plumly
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.